Divide
by thewaterfalcon
Summary: A collection of rare pair one-shots, each inspired by a song from Ed Sheeran's album Divide. For every story I had a pairing and a prompt of two or three things.
1. Eraser (SiriusxLily)

Prompt: Sirius/Lily, Hogsmeade & snow

* * *

 _I'm well aware of certain things that can destroy a man like me_

* * *

1987.

 _Took so much to get here Lils, I didn't dare to believe when you said that it'd happen to me. It was all I dreamed about, talked about - though I know you know that._

 _I often think about what I would've become, without people like you there to tell me I was more than them._

 _It pains me to admit that sometimes I often forget, the ones who were there first, on this wave I've had to ride and on the stones I've had to step._

* * *

1974.

"It's...noise; nothing more, nothing less."

"Yeah, well one day I'm going to make noise just like this, and I'm going to tour the world sharing my noise with thousands of _noise-appreciationists_."

" _Appresiationist_ isn't a word, just like _this_ isn't music."

"It's _more_ than music, Lil."

* * *

1987.

 _Another award last night, Lils, and you know I celebrated with too much whisky. Head's killing, even the smoke isn't taking the pain away. I think I've reached a point that without the drink, life doesn't feel fun. I really should sort my head out and clean myself up. I think even you would question what I've become. But, maybe it's just normal, for someone like me, let me tell you, Lil, there aren't any nine-to-five jobs in the Muggle music industry._

* * *

1976.

"Like anything could be better."

"What if you find love?"

"I've already found love _._ "

"You can't be _in love_ with music, Sirius."

"I wasn't talking about _music._ "

"You can't be in love with a guitar, either."

"Don't ruin this for me, I'm telling you that Fender wants me."

"We should probably head back to the castle, it's snowing again."

"Hogsmeade looks alright in the snow."

"Aww Sirius, I had no idea you were so sensitive."

* * *

1987.

 _I used to think that nothing would be better than this, Lils. I feel like I've followed this life but didn't really know what was involved. They want me to be happy, all the time, and I'm just not. They tell me I'm 'living the dream' and say that it should be fun._

 _That probably disappoints you Lily, and I'm sorry, just please don't be ashamed of the man I've become._

 _They all know me, every fan that comes to see my shows, sometimes I don't know why or how, they even want me there. They come in packs, Lils, to both stadiums and bars, and I'm still just me, wearing the same jeans and playing that same guitar._

* * *

1977.

"Well, I _do_ worry about you, but I'm also incredibly proud. You're determined to chase your dreams, that's admirable."

"Well, I'm a very _admirable_ guy."

"Of course."

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

"Would I do that?"

"There will come a day, Evans, where you say I'm admirable, and mean it, when my friends and family are filled with envy-"

"When they should be filled with pride?"

"Woah Lils, way to put a downer on things!"

* * *

1987.

 _Sometimes I sit here, wondering if I went wrong. The world feels filled with so much hate, and I can't erase it all. I've grown up and I'm still wondering if I made you proud, there's a new generation now, I just hope their inspiration isn't hidden behind a cloud. Every time I say I'm going to change I manage to whisper 'just one more' each day, another one, to take the sting away._

* * *

1980.

"I'll see you soon."

"Please, make sure you do."

"Don't look at me like that, I know you'll be okay. Look after them"

"Look after yourself."

* * *

1987.

 _Welcome to the new show, Lils, did you know I've been away? I don't know where I'm heading this time, but I promise to make it right._

 _Oh, I'm happy on my own (but we both know that that's a lie). Sitting here, staring at these four, forever walls, pretending that I'm writing to you and talking about a life I should have led. You, and the two I made you promise you'd hold close, along with the life I'd give anything so that you could live and take my useless beating heart's place, has always been my only comfort._

 _So here I'll stay, with my thoughts of the past and a hopeless, abandoned dream, and you, if you'll continue to allow me this one, expanded notion, because you always were my pain eraser._


	2. Castle on the Hill (Marauders)

Found my heart and broke it here

Made friends and lost them through the years

And I've not seen the roaring fields in so long, I know I've grown

But I can't wait to go home

* * *

He could wholeheartedly admit that it hadn't been his most calculated move, and that was really saying something, considering that reckless decisions were something of a Sirius Black flagship. But really, was it entirely his fault that the building just across the road from the very spot he'd stopped by sheer chance at just happened to play home to a motorbike dealership? And had he played any part in the decision-making that had determined what, exactly, the current Deal of the Week had been?

No, of course not.

Sirius brought his right leg downwards, his knee bending slightly, the bike's weight was now depending solely on his strength to stay upright. Steadying both himself and the bike, Sirius reached his foot backwards and pulled the kickstand outwards. Grinning, he felt satisfied the bike was entirely steady without his input, he allowed his form to relax as he trailed his right hand over the top of his head. Long, course fingers untangling what parts of his knotted mane they could reach, whilst his left hand still gripped the soft, leather handlebar.

Riding a bike again, especially one that resembled his old one so precisely felt indescribably good.

What Sirius hadn't banked on, when he had offered his parents' property to be used as an Order safe house, was that staying in the place that had caused his childhood to be an experience of sheer unhappiness wasn't in his best interests.

It had been the subject of many a deliberation, between Sirius and Remus, and Sirius and Sirius. Having spent so many years in a hellish loneliness, Sirius had grown used to making decisions, not that there had been that many to make whilst he had been incarcerated, alone, and ultimately, despite what may be his better judgement, Sirius knew in his heart that, as much as it going back would try and break every part of him, but as long as Harry was alive, then Sirius had to be as well, and as much as it pained him to admit it even to himself, he knew Grimmauld Place offered him safety.

He'd just wanted to stretch his legs before he went back...

He'd just wanted to look at the motorbike…

He'd just wanted to feel the way the wind felt as he rode, one last time...

Finding himself nearly two hours North of London, travelling down a myriad of familiar, country lanes had certainly not been on the agenda.

Sirius knew exactly where his heart had taken him. The roaring fields that surrounded the area in which James' parents, Sirius's surrogate family, had made their life were all around him, the landscape absolutely unchanged. Sirius knew he'd grown in every perceivable way since he'd last looked upon the sight, but for a brief, unquestioning moment, he couldn't wait to go home.

"Come on girl," Sirius said, patting the side of the bike affectionately, squinting in the summer sun, he could just make out the silhouette of a large building that was sitting majestically on top of a faraway hill, "let's see if we can get you up to 90."

* * *

Twenty One Years Earlier…

"How did you even get that?" Remus asked, his nose wrinkling as he tentatively brought the small, glass bottle of clear liquid to his nose, inhaling the scent of the spirit with a grimace.

"Bought it," Sirius answered with a wink, "managed to charm the girl behind the till."

"You're fifteen," Remus replied, shaking his head, his disapproving expression was laced with an awe he would never admit aloud, "and this smiles vile," he concluded, his face crumpling together as he took a weary sip of the vodka.

"It's because I'm so mature."

"Hah! I didn't think you knew the word 'mature', Pads," James piped up from Sirius's other side, his scruffy hair was even messier than usual from the sunbathing he'd been doing all afternoon. Now, he leant back on one propped up elbow as he held a hand out to take the bottle of vodka from Remus.

"Hows that cig coming, Pete?" Sirius asked the fourth boy, who was bent over, concentrating on rolling two, identical cigarettes.

"Here," Peter said as he handed one of the cigarettes to Sirius, who was pulling a lighter from the pocket of his jeans.

"Cheers, who knew you'd come in so useful, Wormy, these are perfectly rolled,"

"Some people can sing, some can dance-"

"Some can roll exemplary fags," Sirius interrupted Peter's words with a snort.

"It'll be dark soon, when do you guys want to head back to my parents?" James asked, taking another, bolder, sip of the vodka, his pale face screwing up as the liquid hit his tongue.

"Let's just stay here," Sirius said, taking a drag of his cigarette, he was looking straight ahead, where a hill was visible, "it's alright here."

"Yeah mate," James replied, passing the vodka to Peter, "it is."

And so, with cheap spirits and hand-rolled cigarettes, the four friends watched the sunset over the castle on the hill.

* * *

I'm on my way, I still remember

These old country lanes

When we did not know the answers


	3. Dive (DeanxDaphne)

Prompt: _Missynun83_ basically gave me the basis for this story. 3

* * *

 _So don't call me baby_

 _Unless you mean it_

 _Don't tell me you need me_

 _If you don't believe it_

* * *

I want to tell you a story. Of one boy, one girl, and how the changing of their world started with them...

The War might have been over, but the remnants left behind had stained a part of every one of them, whether it be loss, mess, anxiety, tension, distrust...

… or the overwhelming tribulation that came part and parcel with enduring a year of running, torture, capture and fear… all because _dirty_ blood was running through your veins.

Because you were a Mudblood.

"It doesn't matter." That's what they told him. And it _didn't_ matter, because Blood status meant nothing. But, those were easy words to say when you haven't felt the pain of being forced to tear yourself away from a life you believed you'd been accepted into. Because _that_ did matter. It mattered to Dean, anyway.

* * *

They met on a Tuesday, which seems such an odd thing for me to say, considering they had technically known each other for the past eight years, but really, it just _felt_ like a meeting. Probably because the first time you speak to someone generally is when you meet them, and therefore, they met on a Tuesday. A November one, to be exact, and the second one _in_ November, if you want to be _really_ exact.

You'd be forgiven for assuming it was a pleasant meeting, or one full of polite, yet mumbled greetings. Perhaps your first thought was of an awkward scuffle of social niceties, but again, this presumption would be wrong. Their meeting began as nothing short of a shit storm.

It started with a stone bench, located in one of the Hogwarts corridors. It wasn't a particularly interesting corridor, or bench, for that matter, but it was the place where Dean happened to find himself more often than not during their do over Seventh Year, and it was the place one unsuspecting Daphne Greengrass happened to stumble upon, that Tuesday in November.

One pale hand had jumped to her mouth at the sight of him, perhaps in embarrassment, perhaps shock. It was after nine after all, and most students had retreated to their common rooms by this time. But not him, and apparently not her, either.

"Oh," she had begun, into her palm, "I didn't think anyone else was around."

It was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, you will most likely agree that he should have realised that. She simply didn't think anyone else would be around, simple. It was an entirely justifiable thought, considering not only the time, but the fact that the approaching winter had finally caught up to them. It wasn't anything to do with the fact he was…well, someone like him. He _should_ have realised all of this, nodded politely, perhaps offered a shrug whilst mumbling something funny, which probably wouldn't have actually been funny, but that she'd laugh in response to, in that awkward way that you do when someone you don't really know says something that you both know is not actually funny at all. Something akin to _Yeah, I scared everyone away_ would have been perfectly sufficient.

But, as you've probably guessed, Dean didn't do any of that. Instead, he opted, as you do, to scream at the approaching Slytherin, whom he had never spoken to, nor had any reason to personally dislike.

"YOU'D LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU? IF I WASN'T AROUND, IF US MUGGLE-BORNS HAD PISSED OFF AND NOT BOTHERED COMING BACK?!"

Now, if Daphne's eyes hadn't widened enough at the sight of him, their circumference had amassed even further at his outburst.

I'm sure that some of you would agree with me, and that you would have forgiven the unsuspecting Daphne (who, may I point out, was no more a Death Eater than the chair I'm currently sitting upon) for any combination of the following actions; shouting back at him; slapping him; thrusting a well-placed knee into his most delicate of private regions; or simply storming away at his words, and you would have been entirely reasonable to think so. I'm fairly certain my third suggestion would have been the route I'd have personally opted to go down. But, luckily for Dean, or perhaps more aptly, lucky for Dean's privates, this isn't a tale about him and I.

Where a more hardened recipient may have reacted in anger, _for Dean's sake, let's not think about what would have come to light had it been Pansy Parkinson who stumbled upon the Gryffindor that Tuesday evening (...in November)_ , Daphne's response was something of a surprise, not just to myself, or you, dear reader, but to Dean, also.

That night, Daphne Greengrass became the first of the Slytherins to say the one thing that Dean hadn't realised, that all along, he'd needed to hear.

She'd said, through tear-stained fingers and laboured breathing, that she was sorry.

* * *

It's a funny word: _sorry._

There are only five letters, after all (and two of which are the same damn letter), and it isn't particularly impressive to look at. It's no _onomatopoeia_ (say it with me...it's great, right?) _,_ put it that way. But, despite sorry's rather modest standing, _Holy Hellsnakes!_ How powerful can one adjective be?

Daphne's _sorry_ was in a class of its own. That one, small word, began to repair the damage to his heart and his hope. And in that moment, Hogwarts began to feel, once again, like Dean's home.

You'll be glad to hear that Dean did, in fact, apologise for his uncalled for, and, if you ask me, incredibly rude, outburst.

"I'm...actually glad that you did."

"You're _glad_ that I screamed at you for no reason?"

"I'd rather everyone actually _spoke,_ even if it's shouted. I know our Houses, or, okay, _my_ House and any of the others, well, they're never going to be best friends, but it's got to the point where even making eye contact with anyone feels wrong. No one speaks to us.

"I _want_ to let everyone know that I, at least, played no part in," she swallowed as her eyes fell to the floor, " _his_ plans, but I didn't do anything to not be associated with it either. I didn't fight against it. And for that, I'm sorry. To you, to...everyone."

Dean blinked rapidly, willing the embarrassing amount of liquid that had gathered behind his lids to disappear, and shifted himself further on the bench, "Do you want to sit?"

"Thanks," she said, gratefully, as she accepted the offer, "Do you know, we've been in the same year since we were eleven, and I barely know you."

Dean let out a small chuckle. She wasn't wrong. He lifted one hand, and brought it up vertically, in front of her, "I'm Dean, it's nice to meet you."

She laughed, and the sound was lovelier than Dean would ever admit, and took his hand in her own, "Hi Dean, I'm Daphne."

* * *

Sounds great, right? He was a, rather good looking I must say, guy, and she was a beautiful girl. On paper, they were perfect. But this wasn't _on paper_ , or parchment, if accuracies are to be followed, which I believe they are. This was a pair of not quite adults, neither of whom were particularly adept at navigating the overwhelmingly confusing landscape of adolescent relationships in the first place, let alone at a time where uncertainty towards their peers was a commonplace occurrence. If the Hogwarts students were placed on a scale featuring two very distinct ends, Dean and Daphne would each exist on the very ends of the opposing sides.

Secrecy was an option, of course. A fairly straightforward one, at that, and it was the path they chose, to begin with, or perhaps a more apt description would be that it was the path that chose them. Separately, they continued on as they had for years: Dean Thomas, a shy, artistic Gryffindor boy with a taste for apple crumble and a love of West Ham football team, and Daphne Greengrass, an outgoing, self-confessed Slytherin diva with a penchant for beautiful things and who refused to write so much as her name unless she had a peacock feather quill handy.

Together, after their initial meeting on that particular Tuesday evening (in November, you remembered that time, didn't you?), they existed solely in whispers, passed notes, and primarily behind closed doors in the dead of night.

For Daphne, who shone through secrets, the thrill of their furtive endeavours was freeing and tantalising. It was enough.

For Dean, it wasn't.

It was suffocating and felt sordid, like an endurance that constantly demanded more of him. He did need more, of her. He needed all of her. The Daphne that existed when the sun shone, as well as the one that only appeared by the light of the moon.

"Am I not enough?" she'd whisper, trying desperately to avert the tears that clung to her lashes.

"Of course you're enough," he would reply, hoping he sounded reassuring, "I just...I give my all. It's what I do, I go in hard, like," pausing, he gestured towards their moonlit backdrop of the looming black loch, "ten thousand rocks on the lake."

And she would nod, pretending she understood as she lost herself first in his eyes, and then his touch, and the way the bark felt rough upon her cool skin as she allowed him to wedge her between himself and that tree. She'd kiss him, and although usually, his kisses were soft at first, this time they weren't, and for that, she was glad.

* * *

They continued until he couldn't. Weeks passed, and so did the Winter. What he said he _needed_ didn't ever make complete sense to Daphne, it doesn't fully make sense to me, and it may not to you, reader, but for Dean, it was as clear as the small, crystal peacock she kept hidden on her person at all times.

"I need to know the truth," he'd panted, his forehead pressed into hers, his fingers entwined with the long strands of blonde that cascaded and curled over her back, "before I dive right in-"

"Baby-"

"Don't call me _baby,_ unless you mean it."

"I mean it," she breathed, shivering at the way his lips met the pulse point on her neck, "I need you."

"Don't say that unless you believe it."

Her kiss answered his pleas, but it wasn't until the following day, when, accompanied by wide, unbelieving eyes and not-so-whispered whispers, her fingers laced themselves through his, that Daphne Greengrass's actions confirmed her words.

They were the start, the catalyst for a new beginning, where the distrust and unease that I mentioned earlier began to slowly dissipate. The indifference became civilised, and then friendship, and then sometimes more.

But, like I said, it had always started with them, because they changed their world...because they were the ones that dove first.


	4. Shape of You (TheoxNarcissa)

Prompt: TheoxNarcissa, moonlight & a key

* * *

 _I'm in love with the shape of you_

 _We push and pull like a magnet do_

 _Although my heart is falling too_

 _I'm in love with your body_

* * *

There was no getting around it; what she was doing was wrong.

In fact, there were several distasteful words used to describe women that did what she was doing. Narcissa knew that and wished that the knowledge was enough to make her stop.

As it stood, however, it was not.

It had begun with a note and a key, and ended with a bathtub and a bed.

 _His bed..._

...and now, probably hers, too.

She tries not to think about that. It seems _even more_ wrong when she does.

So she doesn't.

She doesn't think or speak of it, and she certainly doesn't waste any mental energy attempting to understand it.

She simply lives and breathes and feels it…

...and she _loves_ it.

* * *

It started with a note.

A note, and the fact that, on _that_ particular night, through a sheer coincidence, Narcissa had accepted this invitation that her sister had extended to her daily. And _because_ she had accepted the invitation to go out, for once, Narcissa didn't look like the haggard old fishwife she had been, until that night, permanently masquerading as.

They find a bar.

 _Andromeda_ finds them a bar.

A grotesquely loud and throbbing Muggle affair.

She wishes the thrum of music and the crowds of bodies repulsed her. Because at least then she might feel like herself.

But she isn't herself.

She isn't Narcissa, wife of Lucius and mother of Draco who would only be seen socially at a black-tie Ministry event.

Because now, apparently, she is Narcissa, a four-year long widow and mother to a boy who left pretending to find himself but in reality was hiding, who accompanies her wayward sister to Muggle bars with too-loud music and too-disgusting toilets.

They're on their fifth drink when the note appears.

 _Literally_ appears before her very eyes, and Narcissa stares...

...as though she's never seen magic before.

It asks what she's drinking and then-

-as though from nowhere-

-he appears-

-as seamlessly as his note.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he says, and his voice is deeper, different than before.

A lot of him is different than before.

"Likewise, Theodore."

They talk into the night, about his family, never hers, and how they're doing okay.

Long after Andromeda declares the _night too old_ , whatever that means.

For hours they drink fast and talk slow, and then Theo operates something called a _jukebox_...and suggests they share a dance.

And they do, a dance on the terrace, under the moonlight.

Her hand finds his waist as she puts her body on him, neither talking too much.

And she knows it's wrong.

She _knows_ it's wrong.

She knows there are words for women like her.

But it doesn't stop her following his lead...

...or following him home.

* * *

Theo's flat is a short walk away, and Narcissa equally wishes it was closer and further away.

Because there are words for women like her.

Yet, she still kisses him first.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks. It throws her off guard as he searches for his key, which he fumbles to get in the lock.

What she sees of his flat is small, yet neat. The only things she sees in great detail are his bedsheets, and all she knows for sure is that they now smell like her.

Yet, she still kisses him first.

"I think I'm in love with your body," he says, his hands confirming his words.

Her hands find the small, perfectly round buttons of his shirt. She doesn't even undo them or wonder if it's perhaps a shirt he favours above others as she rips it open, hands eagerly roaming underneath as her tongue pushes into his mouth.

His left palm cups the back of her head whilst his right feels one breast, and then the other, until, in what feels like perfect timing, Narcissa feels the backs of her thighs touch what can only be his bed, and allows herself to be thrust upon its surface.

She lets him place himself on top of her, and claim her lips as his own once more.

His hand reaches for her breast once more, this time its partner joining in, and she pushes her chest upwards into his palms, before taking them in her own, her lips leaving his as she looks into his eyes, and guiding his fingertips to the hem of her top as she lets out a nonsensical _nnnrgh_ of frustration during the long seconds it takes to reach behind her torso to undo her bra.

It's the first time his hands meet her bare flesh.

It's the first time she moans his name...

...out loud.

"Say that again," he growls. _Demands._

"Theo," she relents, elongating the _o_ in surprise as his teeth grind gently over a nipple, and then the other.

His hips move forward, a frustrating friction of denim on whatever-the-hell-expensive-fabric-her-own-trousers-are-made-from.

"These need to go," he says.

She can't agree more.

And they do go, in a flurry of pulls and tugs and the flinging of troublesome garments across his room.

 _Theo's_ room.

Because that's where she is.

And she wouldn't wish to be anywhere else.

He makes his way down her body in a river of kisses.

Tantalising kisses that are full of need, and desire and a terrifying electricity.

And suddenly he's exactly where she needs him to be, and his fingers are reaching around the thin sides of her underwear…

...and he's pulling them downwards, over her legs…

...and then they're discarded like the rest and his lips meet the inside of her thighs before she can directly process what is happening.

Not that it matters.

Because she knows she doesn't possess any want to stop him.

She wouldn't stop the point of his tongue from running upwards, and then downwards, and then upwards again, separating her soft folds. She wouldn't stop the way he voiced _mmmm_ at the taste of her or the way he began to hone into her most sensitive point.

No, she wouldn't stop him…

...wouldn't stop this.

Perhaps it was the sheer enthusiasm in which he pleasured her or the way he suddenly stopped just as he'd began to build a more than satisfying momentum, only to start a slow, teasing process to build up to it again, or maybe it was simply the fact that it had been an achingly long time since a man, _any_ man had utterly and truly desired her, that made a simple orgasm feel like the Earth moving beneath them.

He begins to make his way up her body once more, leaving a second trail of kisses in his wake.

She tastes herself when he reaches her mouth.

He smirks when she reaches down his body, her eyes widening slightly as she feels his impressive size.

 _He likes that_ , she thinks.

And she gasps as he pushes, gently at first, but not gently for long, into her.

At first, he makes love to her…

...and then he fucks her.

* * *

There was no getting around it.

Narcissa _liked_ being wrong.

Hell, Narcissa _loved_ being wrong.

"Narcissa?" she hears from the floor of the hallway, "you ready?"

She smiles as she stands.

There are words for women like her, but quite frankly, she couldn't care less.

"I'm not quite ready, Theo," she calls back, "in fact, I still need to have a bath...you can join me if you wish."

His footsteps thunder up the stairs as Narcissa drops the flimsy satin robe and makes her way steadily, carefully, towards her bathroom.

He appears at the door as she gets set to sink into the steaming water, "Well, every day discovering something new," he remarks with a grin.

His eyes drift over her naked frame. "Fuck," he exclaims, "I'm in love with the shape of you."


	5. Perfect (HarryxPansy)

Prompt: HarryxPansy, Ministry ball, wine & red lipstick

* * *

 _'Cause we were just kids when we fell in love_

 _Not knowing what it was_

 _I will not give you up this time_

 _But darling, just_ kiss _me_ slow _, your heart is all I own_

* * *

"Harry, you're making me dizzy, please just sit."

"Can't do that," He mumbled in response and resuming his pacing, "is it time to leave yet?"

Hermione clicked her tongue. "If you want to help set the tables out, then yes. If not, I suggest you sit down."

This time, he took heed of his best friend's suggestion, and sat, somewhat awkwardly, upon the arm of his couch.

The heel of his left hand met his forehead as he tried, only partially successfully, to stop himself from fidgeting.

He didn't hear Hermione rise from her own seat but realised she must've, for he felt her hand rest gently upon his shoulder. "Harry," she began, "I say this with love; you're being incredibly irate."

Harry raised his face, turning his head so that his eyes could meet Hermione's. " You, are calling me irate?" he replied, incredulously.

"Yes."

"Consider it payback, for having to put up with you for so long." He nudged her side, playfully.

He felt her grip on his shoulder momentarily tighten. "You're going to be fine," she said. It was comforting and familiar, and somehow, perhaps because Hermione was rarely wrong, he was able to mostly believe it. He had to.

"I hope so."

* * *

A lot of things changed that night. He'd known that going in, this was the night to end it, one way or another, even without the memory evidence obtained from the depths of Severus Snape's mind, he'd known that there was a high likelihood that he wasn't just walking onto a battlefield. It was always going to be more than a battlefield for him. He would go, whether it be via walking willingly, or being dragged, ungraciously; he hadn't known which... until he'd had to.

However, it wasn't the outcome, as grateful as they were for it, or the losses; those were, of course heartbreaking, but unfortunately, expected, that was the most surprising outcome of the battle.

The most surprising thing had involved one Pansy Parkinson. It hadn't been a shock to Harry, all things considered, when the Slytherin had cried out her desire to hand him over to Voldemort. No, she was a Slytherin and, although Hermione pestered him to let old House rivalries and prejudices die, being a Slytherin meant that you were more likely to support Voldemort. That was simply a fact.

Therefore, it wasn't her words that had shaken his very core, nor the slight waver present in the extended right arm that was directed towards him.

It was the excruciatingly raw fear that was present in her eyes when she did.

* * *

"Shit."

"Language," Hermione stated, much to Harry's combined amusement and irritation.

"I'm twenty-four, Hermione."

Her eyes darted to meet his for a split second, before her mouth twisted into the hint of a smile, "Sorry," she relented, "I spend too much time around Weasleys, they all regularly swear like a bunch of sailors on shore leave, it's nice to be able to tell somebody off for it every once in awhile."

Chuckling briefly at her words, Harry offered his best friend his arm, hoping to reign in the fact that he was shaking - actually shaking, get a grip of yourself, Harry, and the pair began to move towards a grand set of double doors.

He felt Hermione's fingers grip into his arm, as tried to stop his walk from being an awkwardly stoic, robotic affair, "Calm down," Hermione hissed into his ear, "you're the Chosen One , remember?"

"If you ever call me that again I swear I'll disown you."

He felt Hermione's smirk as his frame managed to relax somewhat, "Shut up," he mumbled, irked.

The Ministry of Magic's Annual Ball took place every June, a tradition started as a combined Memoriam to, and celebration of, of the lives that were lost to Voldemort's regime.

This year, a mixture of deep burgundies, rich purples and royal blues radiated from every perceivable surface. An enchanted ceiling, similar to that of the Hogwarts' Great Hall provided the majority of the lighting, a magnificent purple and red nebula was present overhead, as though the heavens were but a stone's throw away from the guests. There was a shimmer of small balls of light, the size of fireflies, present just above Harry's head, giving the illusion that they truly had entered the stars. A scattering of the same lights had been placed, in no discernable pattern, across the large, circular dance floor.

"Wow." Harry heard Hermione breath next to him, and he had to admit, the sentiment was shared.

"Ah," Hermione began, pointing slightly off to the left of their position by the doors, "I believe I can see my date."

Harry's gaze followed the tip of her finger, where right enough, one George Weasley was present, huddled together with Harry's other best friend, Ron, and Ron's new fiance, Astoria.

"Let's go-," Harry started to answer, until the sight of something, or rather someone , strode into his line of vision, "Oh My God, Hermione, I can see her!"

"Where? Oh yes, I see her. Okay, Harry, you aren't breathing, remember to breathe," Hermione whispered, digging her fingernails painfully into his forearm, "you're turning purple, Harry!"

* * *

He hadn't known exactly what unearthly deity had possessed him. Why, fresh out of a hard week of Auror training, and a full-to-bursting list of possible activities to do or friends to catch up with, he'd found himself outside an unfamiliar townhouse somewhere along the outskirts of London.

Finding her had been easy enough, with Ron's new girlfriend Astoria, not one, they had discovered, for valuing confidentiality as much as others may, had provided more than enough information on Pansy's comings and goings as Harry could possibly need.

Her face had contorted when she saw it was he, Harry Potter, who had been responsible for the ringing of her doorbell, first in what looked like alarm, then shock. "Potter?" Her voice was full of a demanding pressure before he noticed her eyes widen briefly as she mentally assessed her greeting. "Harry?" and that time, her voice had been quieter, softer around the edges, as though less of a challenge and more a curiosity, "sorry," she added, "old habits and all that."

"Sure," Harry had replied, "I'm sorry to come by like this, I just wondered if…" he had trailed off, not knowing himself, exactly, why he was standing in Pansy Parkinson's doorway.

"Would you like to come in?"

He breathed a sigh he wasn't aware until that moment he had been holding. "Thanks."

* * *

Hermione had successfully managed to steer Harry towards the small gathering of Weasleys (both actual and soon-to-be), and was, rather uncharacteristically, telling Ron to get Harry something alcoholic, now, claiming that logic and reason had long abandoned Harry at this point, and even she had to admit that his nerves needed drastic calming measures.

"Here you go, mate," an amused Ron passed Harry a tumbler of something dark and fizzy, "better drink it quickly," he added, nodding over his best friend's shoulder. It was only a few seconds until a shiver overtook his spine as an all too familiar, yet all too absent touch swept across his right shoulder blade.

Harry threw the bottom of the glass upwards and grimaced as a burning something ghosted its way down his throat, making sure to swallow the last drop and follow Hermione's useful instruction to continue inhaling oxygen and exhaling his embarrassment at the state he'd got himself into, before he turned his head, and his eyes, once more, found hers.

* * *

"Were you expecting green and silver?"

His gaze halted as it swept over the purple and magnolia decor of the kitchen, and fell upon the room's focal point, a large, cream-coloured aga. He let out a single laugh at her words, "Ha! No, I certainly don't have a red and gold flat."

She returned the laugh. The sort of light-hearted, carefree sound he'd never dreamed that could have come from the same place as Pansy's sharp tongue. It was refreshing, Harry had thought.

"So, since I'm assuming you haven't decided to quit being an Auror and become some sort of decor-inspector, what can I do for you, Pot...err...Harry?"

Having told plenty of lies throughout his years at Hogwarts, Harry cursed the fact that his creative knack for inventing believable stories had utterly abandoned him at this moment. After taking a deep, shaky breath, Harry did something he had explicitly told himself he was not going to do - he told the truth. "I honestly have no idea."

"Oh. Okay. Would you like some wine?"

"I'd love some."

* * *

Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of ravens, stained red lips more exquisite than the finest of rubies and her dress held her body in the same way in which a wall displays a masterpiece.

Drawing him to her, she locked her arms around his neck, and her breathy hi was an enticing breeze upon the side of his neck.

He heard her greet the remainder of the group in a collection of polite niceties before a perfectly manicured hand wrapped itself around Harry's bicep. "Do you want to get a drink?"

He nodded as his eyes met Hermione's and internally noted her mouthed breath , before allowing himself to be led towards an elegant bar of black marble.

"Wine?" he croaked, wishing against all else that some saliva would grant him the kindness of once again taking up residence in his mouth.

Her hand stayed clutched around his arm as they perched themselves upon two identical barstools, and Harry's breath hitched somewhere around his throat as he remembered the last time they had come across that particular type of seating. They hadn't chosen separate ones, then. "Always wine," Pansy nodded.

* * *

"Let me guess, you want a bottle of wine, perchance?" he asked, pressing his mouth into the nape of her neck as his arms wound themselves around her stomach.

"Obviously," she replied, "always wine, you should know that by now." She examined the bottles that were standing, rows upon rows, lined up behind the bar they sat in front of. "That will do," she pointed, shifting herself slightly in the barstool they were currently sharing, and Harry was willing to bet a lot of gold that she could sense exactly why he was suddenly impatient to leave.

"That is the cheapest bottle of wine I've ever seen you choose," Harry remarked.

"Oh, I know, it'll probably be ghastly, but I envision a lot of it will get spilt, and it seems a shame to waste good wine like that."

"Now I'm intrigued."

"You should be," she responded, mysteriously.

A mere thirty minutes later, Pansy was kneeling, her knees resting upon the mattress of Harry's bed, on either side of his hips, the tips of his fingers were drawing unspecific patterns upon the sides of her bare thighs. She was looking down at him, her nose wrinkling in that way it did when she smiled, pouring the wine with an exaggerated abandon of recklessness. Most of the liquid fell over either herself, Harry watching hungrily, as her naked breasts quickly became covered in the beverage, or his, equally naked, chest, rather than the wine glass she held that Harry was certain was solely for show.

"Oh, silly me. I've spilt some. How're we going to clean all this up?" Pansy asked, her voice rife with a faux concern.

"Allow me," Harry responded, his upper body jerking upright as his hands flew to one of their favourite spots - resting upon each of the round cheeks of Pansy's behind. The moan she elicited as his tongue began to eagerly dart over her soaking chest was somehow both equal parts wanton and elegant and was utterly his undoing.

"You're perfect," he stated, between kisses.

* * *

"Antigua, I think. It had the best beaches, anyway."

Harry nodded. "It sounds incredible, and now I'm wishing I'd taken some time to travel somewhere."

Pansy's eyes sparkled, a combined effort, Harry reasoned, from the enchanted star lights, coupled with her eyes' naturally occurring shimmer. "You should really think about it."

"Bit late now."

Pansy sighed, taking a sip of her wine. "That's your problem, always has been."

"What?"

"You're twenty-four, Harry, not a hundred and eighty!"

Harry snorted, missing neither the way the pad of her thumb had begun to draw imaginary circles over his arm or the fact that her stool was suddenly a good few inches closer to his than it had been ten minutes previously. "You're right," he stated, simply.

"Only just noticed?"

He sighed, amusedly, through his nose at her response and noticed, for the first time, that the room had filled with guests during the time he had spent learning of Pansy's travels. From somewhere, a band had started and a number of couples were moving, arms entwined and legs as one, across the large, star-strewn dancefloor.

"Do you want to dance?"

He hadn't been prepared to feel one stiletto move seductively up and down his left calf, nor had he expected Pansy to lean forward and grasp the bottle-green tie that was hanging from his collar. Using the tie as leverage, Pansy hopped off her own stool, standing between Harry's slightly opened legs, and pulled him into her. His hand found the base of her back just as she leant into the right side of his head and whispered her answer into his ear. "No, but I guess we can, for a while."

* * *

"I never knew you were the someone waiting for me."

She laughed at his words as his fingers laced through her own, "Well, I did try and hand you over to your arch enemy, that doesn't exactly scream great romance potential, does it? Did I ever say sorry for that?"

Harry gasped, theatrically feigning shock. "Did Pansy Parkinson just admit she was wrong about something-"

"Oh, shut up-"

"Alert the Prophet! Call the Minister!"

"I swear to Merlin!"

Laughing, Harry threw himself sideways across the grass they were currently lying in and reached out, snaking his arms around as much of Pansy as he could. "Gah! Stop it!" she cried as she found herself wrestling with a stubborn Harry, half-heartedly attempting to evade as many of the kisses he was currently trying to place upon any part of her his mouth was able to reach.

At that point, a small radio that Harry had insisted on bringing with them changed songs. "Oh, I love this one," Pansy cried, eventually giving into Harry's relentless efforts to kiss her and moved her head to the side, permitting his lips access to her neck.

"I do, too," Harry replied, now running his tongue over her sensitive pulse point. "Come on," he exclaimed, before suddenly jumping to his feet, and offering her his hand.

"Come on what?"

"I want you to dance with me."

"No!" Pansy protested, squealing as she felt his arms beneath her. He picked her up and placed a brief kiss on her forehead before placing her upright, "We're in the middle of a field!"

"So?"

"I have no shoes on!"

"And?" he replied, ignoring her protests and placing his arms gently around her, grinning victoriously at her exasperated laugh, and the way her body began to move against him.

* * *

The music radiated through both of them in a continuous, vibrating thrum. The hovering dots of light had been dimmed and, in that moment, Harry could have easily forgotten about the copious other individuals present.

"Pansy," he whispered, relishing the way she pressed against him. The way she used to , he thought to himself.

"Hmm?"

"Was it what you needed?"

* * *

He looked at her with wide eyes. "Travelling?"

"Yes, we always said we would, Daphne and I, I mean, from when we were kids."

Harry dropped his gaze from hers. A thousand protests lay unspoken on the surface of his tongue. "That...sounds great."

She scoffed, "You don't sound very convincing."

"I'm not going to pretend to wish you wouldn't stay, instead."

"I'll come back," she whispered, sliding herself against his chest before gesturing her hands back and forth between them, "this is...amazing, Harry. But we're only eighteen, and it's different for me here. You're a hero, and I'm...still a villain."

"I've defended you against-"

She briefly placed her lips against his, firmly halting his train of words,"I know you have, but... I think I need this."

* * *

"Yes," she nodded her head against his chest.

"I hate to admit it, but you were right."

"Well, that's hardly surprising, but just to clarify, since I'm right about a lot of things, to which specific instance are we referring to right now?"

"We were just kids."

Her hands trailed upwards, one slowly rubbing the nape of his neck whilst the other reached into his hair. "Yes, we were."

"But now, we're not."

He felt the vibration of Pansy's laugh through the front of his shirt, "Maybe we are still kids."

He placed his hands closer together on the base of her back, pulling her gently so that she was even more pressed into him. "But it is different now?"

She managed to reply with a simple yes before Harry leant down and whispered in her ear, "Darling, just kiss me slow."

Raising her head from his chest, Pansy's eyes held his before she succumbed to his request and pressed her lips to his.

He allowed himself a gentle stream of four further kisses before he managed to pull himself from her, "Want to get out of here?"

"Gods, I thought you'd never ask" she replied, giggling slightly, "shall we get a bottle of cheap wine?"

"Definitely," Harry replied with a smirk and allowed Pansy to pull him through the crowd of dancers.

The bar was busier now, and they waited, Pansy scrutinising her reflection in the mirrored wall behind the numerous bottles of liquor. "I look a mess."

Harry whispered beneath his breath, quiet enough so that no one around would notice, but loud enough that he knew she'd hear, "You look perfect tonight."


	6. Galway Girl (ErniexLuna)

Prompt: ErniexLuna, The Hogs Head & a purple feather

* * *

 _She played the fiddle in an Irish band_

 _But she fell in love with an English man_

* * *

It was dark when he awoke, the only light visible was a thin streak that existed solely because of a meagre gap in the curtains of his four-poster.

This was the fifth night in a row it had happened, a few hours of, at best fitful and at worst broken, sleep and then, as though he'd been plunged into icy water, he would awaken, struggling for breath before, as soon as his breathing subsided back to normality, the confusion would set in.

Shouldn't have taken it, Ernie, you prat, he had thought numerous times over the past week.

He was right, of course, he shouldn't have taken it, whatever the hell it even was, not that that really mattered, but he knew this wasn't healthy. The lack of sleep wasn't healthy, and the fixation certainly wasn't.

But he couldn't seem to help it, he'd rather inwardly obsess over it than return to the reality in which it didn't exist.

It was his flagship anecdote, his most treasured memory and his greatest desire all at once. But it wouldn't be for nothing, that much he knew, even if the most that it existed was in a song that he'd write…

…about a Galway girl, and a perfect night.

* * *

Of how he got here, he had no clue. In fact, the more he thought of it, he hadn't the faintest clue where here was. He'd been at...school? Some sort of boarding school, possibly? But...how could he have been at a boarding school he couldn't even remember?

The notion was entirely ludicrous.

Not that it mattered, he supposed, the evening was pleasant enough, neither too cold nor warm, and it was dry, at least.

A nearby street sign informed him that he had just turned onto Grafton Street, not that it gave Ernie much in the way of any clue of his whereabouts, considering he possessed neither knowledge nor memory of any Grafton Street, or anywhere, for that matter.

He wondered, briefly, whether his amnesiac state should be a cause for concern. Probably, Ernie mused, but yet somehow, he wasn't bothered in the slightest.

Grafton Street, Ernie observed, played home to a number of bars, most of which, considering the dusky hue the evening currently possessed, looked as though they were just starting to get lively.

As he walked further down the street, to nowhere in particular, he found himself peering into the open door of one pub in particular, where he could see a young man with hair so blond it was almost white under a single spotlight, was playing an acoustic guitar.

"That's my brother." The voice was unfamiliar and rung out from right behind him, so close it had made Ernie jolt in surprise.

"He's good," Ernie replied, his eyes lingering on the guitarist for a few seconds before he turned his head, his eyes momentarily widening as they met those of the owner of the mystery, yet distinctly Irish, voice.

She was...something else, and although Ernie currently had no memories of any other females, he was fairly confident that she was unlike any other he had met before.

An ethereal aura seemed to surround her, as though she was accompanied by a surrounding glow, or perhaps her presence simply dulled her surroundings. Either way, she possessed a vibrancy that Ernie found himself captivated with almost instantly.

"He is," she replied to his observation of her brother's playing, "we both learned to read music from a very young age."

"You play?"

"I play fiddle and cello, Draco plays piano and guitar."

"Wow, that's almost a band."

She laughed at his words, a celestial, unworldly sound that made the corners of Ernie's mouth twitch upwards. He couldn't have held his smile back had he wished to, which he certainly did not. "We are in a band."

"Then I was right."

She laughed again. "What does that mean?" she asked, pointing to his bare left arm, "the Gaelic ink on your arm?"

"It's one of my friend's songs," he hadn't known what had possessed the words to erupt from his mouth, yet somehow they seemed to ring true, "Seamus, he's a musician like you. Would you like a drink."

Her pale, silvery eyes, so unusual and striking, lingered on him for a moment, before she nodded her head and lead the way inside. Ernie looked at the pub's sign, before following her into The Hog's Head.

"A shot of Jameson please, Justin, and a Jack and coke. My friend here will have the same," she spoke to the somewhat familiar man behind the bar, who shot them a wide smile and a curt nod before he set to work on pouring their drinks. She turned back to Ernie, "I'm Luna, by the way."

"Ernie," he replied, holding his hand out for her to shake. Instead, she placed a tumbler of whisky there instead.

Their first drinks were finished in far too short a time, and for their second round, she asked for 'two shots of Bell's, and two blue labels with lemonade', whatever they were.

Whisky. It turned out they were whisky.

They chatted some more until she demanded they put some, in her words, 'Van the man' on the jukebox. 'Van the man' turned out to be one Van Morrison, an artist who Ernie, despite having no memory of ever listening to any song, let alone enough to know all the words to one, nonetheless found himself fluently blaring out 'Brown Eyed Girl' to Luna in the middle of the crowded, strange pub.

She beat him at darts, and then beat him even worse at pool, and then she kissed him like there was nobody else in the room and as Justin called last orders, she was standing on a bar stool singing out an acapella version of a song she called 'Carrickfergus'.

"I swear, I could have your voice on repeat for a week," Ernie said into her ear, "I know this place is crowded but I could have sworn you were singing that only for me."

She winked in response. "Maybe I was!"

Ernie kissed her on the lips, and then the cheek and the neck, relishing the way she giggled at his touch. "Baby," she began, her hips swaying against his, "I just want to dance!"

"I think," Ernie said, laughing at the way her body continued to move despite the now absence of song, "we've outstayed our welcome."

Indeed, Justin was placing chairs atop their respective tables and clearly making tracks to close the bar, and so they left the venue hand in hand, her coat smelling of smoke, whisky and wine, and a purple feather now present in her silvery locks.

"Oh, it's freezing!" she exclaimed, do you want to come to mine? I have Doritos and wine…" she added, her tone purposefully enticing.

"I swear I'm going to put you in a song that I write."

"You write songs?"

"I do now! It'll be called 'Galway Girl', and be about my perfect night"

"Oh no!" She exclaimed.

"Everything okay?"

"I think I just fell in love with an English man!"

He kissed her on the neck again in response, and she whispered into his ear, "Baby, I just want to dance!"

* * *

He shouldn't have taken it, but he also shouldn't be blaming her, either. She'd been perfectly clear.

"It's absolutely harmless," Luna had said as she held up the small packet, "my father just sent me some."

"And it's what, exactly?" Justin had ventured, eyeing the packet suspiciously.

Luna had blinked at his question, a dreamlike expression present upon her pale face, "It's a sort of hallucinogenic cactus, supposed to be quite the experience, anyone care to have a bite?"

Ernie scowled. Nobody had forced him to take a bite of the cactus plant.

He sighed, mentally weighing up the situation for what felt like the hundredth time. Could he really be placing blame? She, and it, had given him her, the other her. His pretty little Galway girl...

...and their perfect night.


	7. Supermarket Flowers (HermionexCharlie)

Prompt: CharliexHermione, Diagon Alley & a broken shopping bag

A/N: This is the only _Divide_ piece that has been beta'd, because I needed it to be as close to perfect as possible. I cannot thank my beautiful _RooOJoy_ enough for helping me. This piece of writing means more to me than anything else I've done, and she completely got that. I love you.

* * *

 _So I'll sing Hallelujah_

 _You were an angel in the shape of my mum_

 _When I fell down you'd be there holding me up_

 _Spread your wings as you go_

 _And when God takes you back we'll say Hallelujah_

 _You're home_

* * *

"Hermione! Hey, Hermione!"

Hermione didn't notice the bag break, but she supposed it must have - considering Charlie Weasley, of all people - was crying her name whilst jogging towards her, his arms full of everything, she quickly realised, the bag had contained.

As he reached her she attempted to thank him, as was, of course, the right thing to do, but the ability to form words, in any way, had abandoned her. All that erupted from her mouth were sobs.

"Hey, hey, hey," she heard Charlie's familiar voice say. The logical side of her brain was unable to switch off, and she realised that he must have repaired her broken bag and replaced the items; it was the only reasonable explanation for the fact his hands were now holding each of her upper arms. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

She tried to answer him, _tried_ to tell him that it was okay and she was _just fine_ , that he needn't bother, but she found herself nodding. Hermione allowed one strong arm to gently take the carrier bag from her, and the other arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, steering the witch down a crowded Diagon Alley.

"N-n-not the Burrow," she choked.

He looked down and shot her a brief smile as the hand resting against her shoulder gave it the smallest of squeezes. "Of course not."

He didn't lead them through the Leaky Cauldron, which Hermione was instantly grateful for. Instead, he ducked them into a small alleyway beside the pub that Hermione had never even noticed.

"This way will be a tad quieter," Charlie said, giving her shoulder another quick squeeze. "I'm parked just a few streets away."

"You drive?"

"I do! So does Bill; flying is no good around Muggles, and I'll set fire to myself before I set foot on that bizarre bloody bus again. There's not much need for it when I'm in Romania, but it helps when I'm home. Dad loves it, too."

"I'll bet," Hermione replied, fondly remembering a myriad of occasions in which Arthur Weasley had quizzed her mercilessly about Muggle customs and traditions. Her breathing was still slightly hitched, but she had regained some composure; that was something, at least.

Charlie's car, just as he had stated, was located a few streets away. Hermione found herself letting out a shaky sigh of relief as she sat herself in the passenger seat. Her lips twisted into a small, watery smile as Charlie gently placed her bag onto her lap before he jumped into the driver's seat and began to drive off.

They drove for awhile, general chit chat breaking up the periods of peaceful silence, for how long Hermione did not know. She had no idea where they were heading, either, but somehow that didn't feel important. She did eventually decipher that they were headed in a Southwesterly direction.

Their destination - as it turned out - involved the coast, some cliffs, and a deserted beach.

Hermione glanced around her surroundings that were undeniably beautiful and marvelled, despite everything, at how there were luscious green fields only fifty or so feet behind them, yet a sandy beach and a perfectly blue, rolling sea in front.

"This is…" her words faded.

"We came here as kids once," Charlie began, "always liked it here, and you looked as though you needed to get away from London for the afternoon."

Hermione nodded, feeling tears pool themselves once more in her eyes. "You were correct."

They began to walk towards the beach, the wind whipping at Hermione's hair as the stark and brisk breeze nipped at her face. She didn't mind the cold, in fact, she was grateful to feel anything that wasn't hurt and pain; although the two were definitely still very present.

Charlie nodded in response. He didn't press her for reasons or answers' he was just simply, there, walking beside her.

"I had just come from the hospital when…" Hermione trailed off.

She felt a hand once more grip her shoulder. "Mungos?"

"Oh, no. A Muggle hospital." She took a large, shaken breath and said a silent thanks that his hand was still on her shoulder. "My mum got a call this morning. My gran hasn't been very well, although they had thought she might have recovered, she ended up catching pneumonia - a Muggle illness that can badly affect people with low immune systems. My gran had been deteriorating a lot recently and earlier," Hermione stopped and let out a gasp that seemed to shake her whole body. Charlie's grip tightened as she took a breath and forced out, "They said...that there wasn't anything more they could do. She wasn't awake, and they turned off the machine that was helping her to breath."

They had reached the edge of the sand looking out at the wide sea, and Hermione hugged both of her arms over her chest as Charlie's hand held still against her shoulder. She watched the way the sea ebbed up to her shoes before disappearing back again. "She died this morning."

* * *

" _Hermione, darling, the...the hospital have just called, they want us to go in."_

 _Hermione opened her eyes, blinking into the darkness and trying to make sense of her mother's hushed voice. The clock on her childhood bedroom table read close to two am. Suddenly, wide awake, Hermione replied a small "Okay" and began to get dressed. Hospitals didn't call family members at two am for no reason._

 _The drive to the hospital took less time than she'd have liked, and the walk to the - now achingly familiar ward - took much less._

" _Mrs Granger," the nurse spoke to her mother. Hermione didn't hear it all, but she knew the gist. She knew her gran had fallen asleep for the last time, and that, once the machine that kept her breathing was turned off, the person who - when Hermione fell down, was always there - would be granted her wings._

* * *

"I know you'll hear it a thousand times, but I'm sorry," Charlie offered.

Hermione blinked through her tears. "Thank you, Charlie." She hoped he knew that his condolences weren't the only reason for her gratitude.

Hermione wasn't sure why she asked, but she spoke the words quietly, "Do you believe in God?"

Charlie met her eyes with a calm, sideways glance. "Did your gran?"

Her answer came in the middle of a sob. "Yes."

"Then that's all that matters."

* * *

 _Hermione did what she did best, even after the hardest goodbye was thrust upon her, in front of her very eyes, she busied herself._

 _She gently took the supermarket flowers - daffodils, always daffodils - down from the windowsill, and threw what looked like day old tea from a cup into a nearby sink. Carefully, she picked up the photo album her cousin had made and looked briefly once again, through memories of her gran's life._

 _Hermione's mother looked over her daughter's shoulder. "These are the memories of a life that's been loved, that's what she would have said, my Darling."_

 _After a small time, Hermione began to take down the numerous cards and stuffed animals. An old ginger beer - her gran's favourite - was poured down the sink. Not feeling it was enough, she found the spare nightgowns, folding each one neatly and placing it into the case. The chairs she stacked, the pillows she fluffed and the other, unoccupied bed, she remade._

 _She held her mother through the loss of her own mother._

* * *

"Tell me about her?"

Hermione was struck by the question. "What?"

"Your gran, tell me about her, if you'd like to, of course."

"I'd love to," Hermione replied, wiping away the solitary tear that was tracking its way down her cheek.

And so she did.

She told Charlie all about her grandmother, who often had very little filter with her words, whose green eyes protected her family with a fierceness that Hermione could only wish she had one tenth of, and who found happiness in ducks, the colour yellow and having a fruit scone with her coffee. She told him about the woman who collected rare tea sets and who always had a pet cat, the one who'd taken her swimming as a girl, and was the first person she rode a bus with. She talked of the terracotta living room and the best soup she's ever eaten and of an intense love of travelling. She spoke of family, and home and love.

"She was really loved, and she got to see the person I have become," she finished in a whisper.

"I'd be willing to bet a lot of gold that you made her the proudest grandmother on Earth."

They sat in the sand until it was cold and dark. They simply sat until they didn't, and until Hermione knew she needed to go back to her mother.

Charlie nodded. "Okay, we can head back."

"I'm very grateful...for this."

He answered her first with a smile. "There's nothing to be grateful for."

Hermione wiped a tear from the side of her face as they began to walk back towards Charlie's car. "I don't know if I believe in God, Charlie, but today I'm choosing to because I just know that when God took her back...he said 'Hallelujah'."

* * *

A/N I miss you.


End file.
